


The Practical Girl

by lit_chick08



Category: Make It or Break It
Genre: 100 Fairytales, Canon Compliant, F/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Payson thought everything would get better when Sasha returned, but it isn't so easy to go back</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Practical Girl

**Author's Note:**

> written to fill the "Practical Girl" square on the 100 Fairytales Prompt table

Payson Keeler is not a dreamer. From the moment she decided she was going to be an Olympian, Payson dedicated herself to working 24/7 in order to accomplish that goal (it was _not_ a dream because dreams might not come true; in Payson's world, goals were _always_ accomplished.) Even when she broke her back, when everything looked hopeless, Payson was still practical in what her body was capable of, of what _she_ was capable of.

Sasha challenged that, tipped her world off of its axis and forced her out of the world of practicality and into the dreamy world she had struggled her entire life to stay far, far away from.

There is a tiny part of her which blames him for what happened that evening in the gym. When she was Payson Keeler, the power gymnast who intimidated other gymnasts just by showing up, she _never_ would have been so overwhelmed by emotion, she would have kissed her coach. But Sasha Belov had made her Payson Keeler, the artistic gymnast no one was going to see coming, and _that_ girl had been so silly and stupid, she had thought a grown man with a world of experience and a pretty, perky girlfriend would want to kiss her.

Mostly Payson blames herself though for forgetting who she was, who she _is_.

She sits in the bar in a country she never dreamed she would be in, hundreds of miles away from the gymnastics competition she _should_ be warming up for, and she watches him as he moves about his work. This Sasha is not the one she thought she knew so well back in Boulder; her Sasha had always moved with an innate grace, the voice of authority in a world which could spin wildly out of control (something Darby's tenure as coach has proven.) 

He was never _her_ Sasha, Payson reminds herself. It is that sort of thinking which has led to his exile.

When Summer arrives and accuses her of being just like Sasha, Payson realizes that, only a few weeks ago, her words would have been the highest compliment she could have received. Now they feel like an indictment, an accusation, a curse.

Sasha's return to The Rock isn't the comforting triumph Payson thought it would be. She had imagined everything would return to normal, that life and training would resume in the same comfortable rhythm it had been in before he left, but, if anything, it's worse. When he speaks to her now, his words are clipped, informal; there are no more deep conversations or ballet dates. She is just any other gymnast now, and he never works with her one-on-one anymore; it is always the assistants who spot her, who guide her movements, who offer her critiques.

Payson understands why he is doing it this way, why he cannot run the risk of even the slightest hint of impropriety, but it stings all the same.

She cons one of the new assistant coaches into letting her stay in the gym after hours to condition, promising to lock-up when she is done; when she is alone, she readies the music for her routine on the sound system before suddenly being overwhelmed by a wave of fatigue. For the first time in her life, Payson is weary down to her bones, and she does not want to practice, does not want to think about degree of difficulty or leg extension. It is pure impulse which makes her switch the sound system to the radio station, the loud, pounding rhythm of a pop song now echoing in the empty gym. Payson chuckles to herself at the idea of performing to such a song, mentally calculating how many points she would be deducted before even starting her first movement, and, for an insane half-beat, she wishes she was able to separate gymnastics from the rest of her life.

What Emily did was beyond stupid; Payson does not kid herself into thinking Emily Kmetko's decision is anything other than ridiculous. But sometimes she envies Emily's ability to see a life for herself outside of gymnastics, to have parts of herself which is not tied to the sport which Payson has sacrificed everything to participate in at the elite level. Her goal has been London for as long as she can remember; Payson doesn't even know what lies beyond that. Her parents talk about college a lot, but she hasn't attended a real school consistently since she moved to Colorado; she doesn't know what she could possibly have in common with other people her age, people who have gone to proms and birthday parties while she has gone to World Championships and Olympic trials.

She hasn't told anyone yet, but she knows she will retire after London. Her body has already sustained more trauma than most athletes who compete in contact sports; four more years of constant training might render her body practically unusable, and Payson does not want to be twenty-two-years-old and dependent upon opiates to keep the pain at bay.

Kaylee and Lauren will have another round in them; Emily could have too. The irony of her drive and desire being trapped in a body held together by sheer determination was a little too bitter some days.

Instead of the tricks she has spent the past few months perfecting, Payson finds herself performing the rudimentary skills taught in every beginner class. As the latest pop princess croons and moans over the sound system, Payson does cartwheels, walkovers, and round-offs. She lands a one-handed cartwheel (the first skill she mastered which made her squeal with delight way back in kindergarten) and turns her landing into a single pirouette; she does an illusion and slips easily into a back walkover. The bass of the song shakes the floor, and Payson flicks her hands in a mocking pantomime of Lauren's beam routine; she executes a perfect body roll before flipping herself neatly into a handstand, scissoring her legs in a playful motion that used to make her father laugh. When upright, she swivels her hips, following the music, before performing an almost casual arial.

Back in Minnesota, at the gym she had aged out of by the age of eleven, her coach had ended every practice with a play session. After practicing advanced skills and pushing their young bodies, she would turn on music and allow them to dance across the floor, jump on the trampoline, or dangle from the uneven bars as if they were playground equipment. At the time, it had annoyed Payson, the way no one else seemed to take training as seriously as she did, but some days she wondered how different her life would have been if she had danced around the floor in Minnesota.

She has just thrown herself forward for a punch front when she notices the movement at the edge of the mat. As she sticks the landing, Payson already feels her cheeks filling with color at the speculative look Sasha has fixed on her. Quickly she rushes to the sound system, turning off the music which has transitioned into a rather suggestive rap song.

“I didn't know anyone else was here.”

“Clearly.”

Payson squirms as she tries to explain, “I was just...”

“You were just what?” Sasha challenges. “You were just tumbling without any supervision whatsoever? You were just potentially risking injury to prance around like a child on the playground?”

Payson feels shame threatening to choke her, anxiously twisting her hands as she drops her gaze. It is not that she has not been criticized by a coach before, has not been criticized by Sasha before; criticism is par for the course at the elite level. But it is the first time she has ever been criticized for being frivolous, and it stings in a way Payson is unfamiliar with.

“I'm sorry.”

“Sorry? Is that what you would tell your teammates should you have been injured? We leave for Brazil in less than a week, you have a chance to bring home gold, and you're spending your evenings bopping around to - “

“God, Sasha, I said I was sorry!” Payson explodes, the stress of the last few months overwhelming her and spilling out in the exact kind of messy displays she hated. “I just needed to relax for three minutes, and I wasn't doing anything that could have injured me, so just get off my back!”

Payson sees the way his eyes widen in surprise before darkening in anger, and she knows she has gone too far. Before he left, she may have been able to get away with this sort of outburst, but their relationship had been different then; before the kiss, before Ellen Beals showed everyone that picture, Sasha hadn't just been her coach. He had been her friend, maybe her _best_ friend; now he was hardly even her coach.

“I don't know what sort of disrespect Darby allowed, but I am not - “

She throws up her hand to stop him before she even realizes she is doing it, and she can see how startled he is by it. Payson does not have the energy for this tonight, all of the lassitude in her limbs suddenly gone in the face of his disapproval. She had wanted Sasha to return to The Rock, to make everything right again, but nothing felt right anymore. 

“I get it, okay?” she states, hearing the exhaustion in her voice. “I'll do extra conditioning tomorrow, I'll clean the mats, whatever. Just...just stop, please?”

She turns around, heading towards her gym bag, pulling out her sweatpants and tugging them up over her hips. Payson hears Sasha saying her name, his tone getting sharper, and for the first time since he first entered the gym all those months ago, she doesn't turn to face him, doesn't heed his call. When she feels him at her back, practically pulsing with anger, she isn't sure what is about to happen but she is certain she does not want to have the conversation which is brewing.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Sasha demands, his voice sounding less like her coach's and more like someone she has never met. “This is not the Payson Keeler I know.”

Finally Payson spins, her own anger finally exploding in her chest. “That's because you left! You just left without even saying goodbye! I deserved more than a letter! I _needed_ you, and you just walked away like I meant nothing, like what we did together meant nothing!”

“Payson - “

“And it was even worse after you left! Do you know what it was like, having to walk in here every day and have everyone know I was the reason you left?! Everyone blamed me, _everyone_! And because you weren't here, because Darby was such a useless moron, I got to hear _every day_ about what a coach-screwing slut I was from Lauren, from people at other gyms, from strangers! You got to leave, but I had to stay here and deal with everything, so no, I'm not the same Payson you left behind!”

“Payson - “

“And I get that I ruined your life because I got wrapped up in a stupid moment and kissed you! You lost your job, your respectability, your relationship with Summers, and that was my fault. I take responsibility for that, and I understand that, but do you really hate me so much you had to just disappear without a word?” Tears spilling over her lids, she gasped out, “Didn't you care at all?”

“Is that why you wanted me to come back, because you think you owe it to me to fix things?” he asks in the soft voice Payson recognizes from long talks.

“Everyone suffered because I let my stupid crush ruin everything,” she sniffles, wiping at her face. “And I wish I could go back and stop myself but - “

She is startled when Sasha suddenly pulls her into his chest, his arms slipping around her body in the familiar embrace she has ached for in his absence, but Payson still wraps her arms around him, still inhales the comforting scent of him. Payson feels his hand stroking her ponytail, and she twists her fingers into the back of his t-shirt, afraid he is going to pull away, terrified he will leave again.

“I didn't blame you for anything, Payson,” Sasha murmurs against the crown of her head. “And of course I care. It killed me to leave all of you, but I truly believed it was for the best. I know how vicious gossip can become in a gym, and I had hoped by leaving it would spare you from being...”

“The girl who got special attention because she was sleeping with the coach?” Payson drawls bitterly against his shirt.

“That's what they say?”

Payson nods. “Kelly Parker told everyone a story about us getting caught by Ellen Beals doing something on the beam I'm pretty sure isn't physically possible.”

Sasha chuckles mirthlessly. “That's precisely what I was hoping to avoid.”

Payson finally pulls back, staring up into his face for the first time since his return, allowing herself to really look at him. “I'm sorry I kissed you.”

He smiles sadly, tenderly touching her cheek. “I'm sorry I couldn't kiss you back.”

Her heart skips a beat, stomach twisting sharply in a way it never has with Max. “Did you...Did you want to?”

Sasha sighs heavily. “Even if you _were_ of age, a coach has no business becoming involved with his athlete. It's bad business all around. And you, Payson Keeler, have made it perfectly, frustratingly obvious that you want me as your coach.”

Payson chuckles despite herself. “But I won't...I won't always be your athlete and you won't always be my coach.”

“True,” Sasha acknowledges.

“So what happens then?”

“Then we have another conversation.” Glancing at his watch, he is suddenly all business again. “You should head home. You'll need to arrive an hour early tomorrow for your additional conditioning.”

Payson nods agreement, swinging her bag over her shoulder and heading towards the parking lot without sparing a backward glance.

In 14 months, she will no longer require a coach.

If she could wait fifteen years to get to the Olympics, she could wait little more than a year for Sasha Belov.


End file.
